


Supplication

by skysedge



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Pre-War, Violent Thoughts, astral stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 03:06:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16589651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysedge/pseuds/skysedge
Summary: “You know you could have even more fun with somethingbigger.”





	Supplication

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hellsnextboss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hellsnextboss/gifts).



> I had no idea how to tag it but if you have an intense dislike of dead specimens in jars then this might not be for you? Idk man. They're there.

Belial has a talent for getting his own way and talking a guard into letting him into the laboratory is stupidly easy, just like always. He knows where to look first, After only minutes he finds Lucilius in the farthest alcove from the door, cool eyes fixed on a collection of severed wings.

“That looks…”

If he’s honest, the long dimly lit room looks like a wonderful nightmare. It’s a long, low-ceilinged chamber, wide and empty in the middle with branching alcoves at each side. Each alcove has walls of glass, behind which are myriad jars and cases, horrors lurking in murky liquid, parts of animals pinned to boards. The layout always puts Belial in mind of a ribcage, branching spindles connected to the spine.

Admittedly, the specimens in front of him might be skewing his perceptions. The wings that are holding Lucilius’s attention are spread out, the feathers and bones stretched with clinical precision. They’re much _smaller_ than ones adorning Belial’s own back. Unimpressive. But Lucilius slides the glass aside and runs his fingers across the fragile bones with such thorough concentration that Belial’s usual smirk twitches.

“Yes?”

It’s probably not possible for Lucilius to sound anything other than bored. Belial isn’t graced with even a glance and he revels in the dismissal, the challenge.

“Fun,” he finishes at last, boldly walking forwards until he’s standing at his creator’s shoulder.

“I’m busy, Belial.”

Cold eyes still on the specimens before him, Lucilius moves to the shelf above, stretching long fingers upwards to trace the letters on a jar of thick orange liquid. Inside, a pair of clawed feet held together with twine jut upwards from a mess of colourful feathers. Belial imagines his own ankles bound, pointing towards the sky.

“You know you could have even more fun with something _bigger._ ”

“Correct.”

Lucilius slides the glass panel back into place and turns, walking briskly past Belial and into the main walkway. Everything Lucilius does is controlled, is logical, and so as his slender shoulder brushes Belial’s as he passes, he knows the game is on. With this man there’s no such thing as an accidental touch; everything he does is calculated.

“Come,” Lucilius orders.

“Already?”

The sharp click of Lucilius’s shoes on the stone floor is his only answer and he bites his lip to restrain a shiver as he obeys and follows with an easy, lazy gait. The other researchers question him, or laugh, or flee in discomfort when he acts this way. They’re _boring_ and so he never does as they ask. They’re not worth behaving for.

“Look.”

Reaching another alcove, Lucilius slides another panel aside to reveal a majestic pair of wings, black and tawny feathers as thick as his arm, the wingspan easily double Belial’s own. He wonders who they had belonged to, or what, and when they had been harvested, if it had hurt, if they’d screamed and cried, how it would _feel_ to be torn apart and kept behind glass.

“Ooh,” Belial breathes, stepping closer with a sway of his hips and a light in his eyes. “ _Very_ impressive. So _this_ is your thing?”

He watches as Lucilius fingers the ends of one large primary feather, separating the barbs and then smoothing them back into place. In profile, the scientist is statuesque, all sharp edges and pale unblemished skin. His thin lips turn down at the corners and he clicks his tongue, shaking his head just barely. Belial drinks in each motion.

“A weak radius,” he murmurs, as if he’s forgotten Belial is there. “Broken in the initial stages of protoyype testing. Perhaps with a reinforcement to the skeletal structure I could-“

“Well, you know how it is,” Belial says with a grin, swaying closer and reaching out for the feathers himself. “It’s not the size that matters. It’s what you _do_ with-“

Lucilius’s hand closes around his wrist just before he can touch the wings and _finally_ that hard stare is turned upon him, The blood jumps in his veins.

“Ask permission first,” Lucilius says calmly. “What have I told you?”

It would be so easy to break out of the grip. Lucilius’s strength is in his mind and his skill, not his body. They both know it. Belial is content to play along for a moment, happy to observe the way Lucilius’s nails press dents into his arm, the delicious curve of those clever fingers. They’ve put together and taken apart so many wonderful, horrible things. The evidence of that is scattered around them, bulbous eyes and grasping claws pressed against glass. He doesn’t know how many of these lucky creatures Lucilius has arranged himself, bending them into shape and poring over their forms, but Belial aches for that sort of treatment, that uncaring scrutiny.

How unfair that he should be unable to remember the process of his own creation. Touched and twisted outside and in, pumped with energy, tested to breaking. All that sensation wasted. He licks his lips at the thought of it, searching for any flicker of emotion in Lucilius’s eyes.

“Mm…” He pretends to be hard at thought, drawing his brows together, and then sighs. “Nah.”

Belial lets his hand drop, but not before he can brush his fingers against the inside of Lucilius’s wrist, tracing the blue veins visible through his soft white skin. It’s cool to the touch. Perhaps his heart circulates something other than blood through his body, liquid metal or glass.

“No,” Lucilius states.

“No,” Belial agrees, stepping away from the monstrous wings and placing his hands on his hips, stance wide. “I don’t wanna touch those anymore.”

 “Then what do you want? I recall telling you that I was busy.”

Belial recalls that a great many times this has meant nothing at all. He grins and spreads his hands wide in false supplication.

“I want to help you. Give me something to _do_.”

It’s breaking point. He’s played this game too many times to not know the pattern by now. Today Lucilius answers quickly, a surprise, and Belial can’t keep the thrill he feels from showing on his face.

“This way.”

Lucilius doesn’t wait to see if he’s following. They both know he will.

Belial sways after Lucilius’s precise footsteps, taking his time and enjoying the view. Glimpses of the man’s neck beneath the ends of his pale hair, slender booted calves in motion, the sway of his robes just hinting at his form beneath. Lucilius is tall but slender, seems brittle and small even with all of those exquisite layers. The knowledge that he could crush Belial on a whim is a constant warm ache in his stomach, an intoxicating threat.

They reach the middle of the echoing hall and Lucilius stops, turning to face the hound at his heel. Belial bites his lip as Lucilius looks him over from head to toe, from one wingtip to the other. Whatever thoughts are passing through that magnificent brain are all for him in this moment and he shivers with delight.

“Stand tall.”

Belial does as ordered, drawing himself up to his full height, broad shoulders set wide. More orders come quickly, sharp eyes scrutinising his every movement, checking if he’s up to standard. He obeys every one to perfection.

“Feet apart. Arms out. Chin up. Wings spread.”

He cuts an imposing figure like this, he knows. He’s heard others gossiping, afraid and curious in equal measure. Oh there are _bigger_ beasts for sure, ones with bulging muscles and square jaws. He’s met those taller than him too, serene in their stature, and those made for pure ethereal beauty. He’s like them all but different to each and he’s proud of everything he’s been created to be. The way Lucilius watches him in silence suggests that his creator is proud of his work, too. He hopes so.

“Good.”

A tiny trace of approval is enough to leave him smiling, his wings ruffling with a shudder up his spine. But he hasn’t been told to move and so he forces himself to stay still as Lucilius steps towards him and begins to circle him slowly, eyes slightly narrowed as they always are when he’s working.

The first touch comes from behind, a hand running through the lengths of his primary feathers. It’s an examination, firm and steady touches to the structure of his wings, the other hand joining the first, pressing and searching within the down for the bones beneath. Belial keeps himself standing proud but his lips part and he breathes his pleasure in a long exhale. He’s getting hard, this is more than enough, just another part of his body he’s proud to display.

Finished with the wings, Lucilius circles further, pressing his hands into Belial’s shoulder, moulding his fingers to the shape. Further still, lower, running along each rib with analytical precision even through his clothes. Belial doesn’t bother to stifle a low moan as Lucilius grasps at the sharp angle of his hip.

How _gorgeous_ that the man who had fired this body into life can now fill it with electricity with just a touch. Belial will joke about it some other time, words dying on his lips as Lucilius moves to face him, expression the same as ever.

“Eyes closed.”

Ah but it’s so _hard_ to obey when he’s this close. He hesitates a fraction too long and Lucilius clicks his tongue and reaches up to do the job himself, pinching Belial’s dark eyelashes between his fingers and pulling the lids shut. The primal laughs at that but keeps them closed. As delightful as being punished would be there can be greater benefits to behaving, at least for now.

One such benefit is the warm breath against his neck as Lucilius leans closer to inspect him, not tall enough to breathe in his ear. Still this is good, more than that, the way Lucilius touches his face is _wonderful._ His chin is held firmly between thumb and forefinger to keep him in place while the rest of his features are studied one by one. The hand against his cheek is not gentle in the slightest, there’s no trace of fondness here, no admiration.

Belial wants to feel his hair being pulled, to enjoy the sting of nails against his skin, wants to be told how _good_ he is. The denial of all of these things is intoxicating, a knife’s edge to dance upon. He’s content to teeter there for minutes, right up until Lucilius’s hair brushes his jaw as he cranes upwards to peer at the nape of his neck. No touch is an accident. Belial licks his lips and raises his voice in a low murmur.

“Can you really get what you want while I’m wearing these clothes?”

“I can.”

Lucilius runs a finger along his jaw and then upwards, tracing the generous swell of his lips.

“Can’t you?”

It’s too much. He’s been behaving and it’s time he took something in return. He barely thinks before parting his lips and flicking his tongue outwards, aiming to catch a taste of skin.

“Tch.”

Instead, Lucilius neatly pinches his tongue between thumb and forefinger, pulling just enough that the web beneath pulls on his teeth with a delicate sting. Belial’s eyes slam open in surprise and he’s met with a stern icy gaze.

“What have I told you?”

_You belong to me._ That had been one of his first lessons. Not the one he’s supposed to be remembering. He’s unable to answer regardless, breathing heavily through his open mouth. Unphased, Lucilius resumes his analysis with his other hand, pressing into Belial’s neck just where his pulse is jumping. A groan rumbles in Belial’s throat and Lucilius moves his fingers to his larynx to trace the sound.

“I didn’t design you to be this way,” he continues. “An unexpected by-product.”

_I should dispose of you._ Said many times but never done, a threat but never a promise. Belial can feel saliva escaping the corner of his parted lips, knows it must be running onto Lucilius’s fingers, and he’s almost panting when Lucilius curves his hand around his neck and _squeezes_. Belial moans loudly enough that he almost misses the calm accusation that follows.

“Did you really think you could manipulate me into giving you what you wanted?”

No. Yes. Either way he’s getting it anyway, his heart pounding in his ears, his cock aching against the confines of his pants. Lucilius’s hands are on him, icy blue eyes focussed on his sinful expression, speaking cruel words for him alone. This is _exactly_ what he wants. He’s sure Lucilius knows it too. He jolts as Lucilius alters his grip on his tongue, presses his nails into the tense muscle, and heat spreads low through his body so rapidly he feels lightheaded.

“You were made to be intelligent.”

It’s impossible to care as Lucilius releases his throat to trail lower, slips a hand inside his open jacket and traces the edges of his pectorals, back along every rib, lower, but not low enough. Eyes closed, Belial rocks his hips forwards blindly, seeking any pressure to drive him deeper into the haze of lust. Knowingly, Lucilius releases his tongue and steps away completely. He waits until Belial has opened his eyes to speak, the smallest hint of a smile on his lips.

“Do you understand?”

He does. He’s been here before. Dark pupils blown wide with desire, his tongue dry, he drops to his knees on the cold stone floor and does as he’s expected.

“Give me permission,” he rasps.

Lucilius lays a hand on top of his head, the touch of a priest or a master, the strength of a god, the only grace he’ll bestow.

“Granted.”

It’s all Belial needs. He tugs and pulls at layers of fabric until he touches warm leather, curves his hands around the sharp angles of Lucilius’s hips and breathes a moan. There’s _just enough_ of Lucilius, just enough flesh to grab and just enough warmth to tantalise. Belial isn’t sure he’d be able to grow bored of touching such a perfect being, murmurs vague words to that effect and receives a sharp pull on his hair in punishment that’s a reward in itself. He’s so hard it _hurts_ but he can take more, he can wait for now, so long as he can touch and taste and feel.

Luciliius tenses at the first touch of his tongue, a languid lick along the waistband of his pants and the soft skin it presses into, but it’s a silent, barely-there reaction. Not enough. Belial lingers just long enough to receive another stinging pull and then works on unclasping Lucilius’s pants, groaning in disappointment to find a soft underlayer there too. He sways forwards on his knees, presses open-mouthed parodies of kisses along Lucilius’s length, his body hard and hot despite his silence. Belial mouths the head, almost gagging at the dry taste of cloth on his tongue, but shuddering as Lucilius twitches just enough for him to feel against his lips.

“I’m _busy_ ,” Lucilius murmurs, hands leaving Belial’s hair. “Don’t waste my time.”

‘Busy’ enough that he lowers his hands to his hips and pushes his underclothes away himself, grasping the base of his erection in one hand and taking hold of Belial’s hair again with the other.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Belial breathes, glancing up to find Lucilius watching him with emotionless eyes. “You-“

“Tch.”

Lucilius presses himself into Belial’s mouth without hesitation and the primal eagerly takes him in, holding his breath so as to hear a small but unmistakeable sigh of satisfaction. Enraptured, Belial surges forward to take Lucilius in to the root, whimpering with a mixture of discomfort and pleasure as he struggles to swirl his tongue over as much burning skin as he can manage.

Nothing compares to this, to the subtle taste of sweat and lust, to his carefully measured breathing, to the firm and guiding hand in his hair. Oh, plenty of others have been eager for his attentions. He’s no stranger to matters of the flesh. But no scream of his name, no nails down his back, no slick heat around his cock, _nothing_ comes close to this. He doesn’t understand it himself. He’d laugh if he was able. Instead, he keeps his eyes fixed on the unwavering expression far above him and works Lucilius’s length with everything he has, holding back sounds of his own pleasure to drink in each soft sigh and minute hitch of breath until he can’t bear it any longer. Lucilius knows, like always.

“Ask for permission,” he says quietly, the barest hint of a strain to his voice.

Words won’t do; he’d have to stop and that’s just not going to happen. Instead, he swallows hard around Lucilius’s cock, slides one of his hands down his own chest and stomach, and whines as loudly as he can manage.

“Granted.”

Belial _trembles_ as he finally presses his hand downwards, palming himself through the tight material of his pants. He’s so hard it hurts and even just this pressure makes it difficult to think, sends stars shooting across his vision. He spreads his knees further against the cold floor, barely staying upright as he bobs his head in earnest and ruts against his hand, body taut and racked with tremors.  It’s unsightly and he knows it, his eyes wide, his chin coated in saliva, the strange motions of his body, but it feels _good,_ too good to even consider doing anything more than this. He knows Lucilius enjoys seeing him in this state, his powerful creation brought to _this,_ can feel it in the way his cock swells almost too much to take, the way his pulse hammers through the veins against his tongue. 

_Everything imperfect must come to an end._ Another lesson he had learned. He feels Lucilius’s climax building to breaking point and is already moaning in appreciation when the hands in his hair twist, tighten, and pull him closer. Lucilius comes with a series of soft gasps, holding Belial’s wild gaze and holding him in place, forcing him to swallow again and again until he’s spent. Only then does he wrap a hand around Belial’s throat, presses fingers and thumb into just the right places to make Belial’s vision darken and his ears ring urgently and suddenly everything is _too much_. He grinds against the palm of his hand and cries out as he comes, cock still trapped in his pants, and his lungs burning and panting for air.

The moments after are his favourite. Just the sounds of breathing, shocks of electric up and down his spine, the heady scent of sex in the air. He’s not allowed to enjoy it for long. He smiles hazily up at his creator until the next order comes.

“Stand.”

It’s hard when his legs are so unsteady but he manages, pins and needles shooting up and down his calves. Lucilius tucks himself away and straightens out his robes before looking Belial up and down.

“Tch. Careless.”

“Huh?”

He reaches down to swipe a finger along Belial’s waistband, gathering up a scant trace of liquid from his skin. Expressionless, Lucilius raises the finger to Belial’s lips and nods in approval as the primal licks it clean. Belial vows that one day it’ll be the other way around. For now, though, he’s content to stretch his wings and act as usual, as though nothing has happened.

“Leave,” Lucilius demands on cue, “I have work to do.”

Belial flashes him a wink and wipes his reddened lips with the back of one hand.

 “S’been fun.”

“Assist Beelzebub.”

When It comes to Beelzebub, ‘assist’ usually means heavy lifting and nothing fun whatsoever. A pity. Belial hesitates, holding Lucilius’s gaze and letting his mind skip along a dangerous path. Why does Lucilius let him get away with this time and time again? Is it just him? Is he base and crude enough that it has to be him? He wonders if Lucilius has ever fucked any of the others, if Beelzebub has a hidden bestial side of his own. Perhaps their almighty creator takes Lucifer to bed. How delightfully vain that would be.

“Go.”

He won’t get an answer, even if he asks. Instead, he clicks his heels against the floor in an exaggerated gesture of obedience.

“Yes _sir._ ”

Lucilius turns away first, retreating to the alcove he had been found in without looking back and Belial has no other option but to retreat. He counts his steps to the exit in reverse, knowing exactly the number it takes from any given spot. It’s probably a sign that he comes here too often, feeding an addiction he likes to think is forbidden.

He casts one last glance towards the specimen jars on his way out, grins at the rows of lifeless eyes. What would it take to land himself in one of these cases? How far would he have to push?

Not today. Next time perhaps. Because he’ll be back, he knows that for certain. He can’t keep away. And why should he? This is where it all _happens._ Or starts to, at least. He hopes it’ll end here too.

 

 


End file.
